The Walkmen

Walter Martin, Matt Barrick, Paul Maroon-- respectively the organist, drummer,
and guitarist for the late Jonathan Fire*Eater-- used their ...

Walter Martin, Matt Barrick, Paul Maroon-- respectively the organist, drummer,
and guitarist for the late Jonathan Fire*Eater-- used their Dreamworks cash to
purchase a Harlem loft, install a recording studio, and start over. Wolf
Songs for Lambs flopped financially, primarily because it sounded recorded
in a large, wet box. However, it was a pretty damn unique and haunting garage
pop album, and even predated some modern NYC trends (like the Strokes, the
French Kicks, the Mooney Suzuki). Now residing on the more modest, yet
bombastically monikered StarTime International, home too of the French
Kicks, the Walkmen emerge from their uptown cocoon with a promising, and
similarly unique self-titled EP.

The immediate difference between Jonathan Fire*Eater and the Walkmen is the
change in singers. Stuart Lupton, who now concentrates his efforts on a new
band called the Child Ballads, obviously worshipped Mick Jagger's slur and
rasp. His poetic rants fit Fire*Eater perfectly. The Walkmen stand behind
new pipes, Hamilton Leithauser, who recalls a more operatic Lupton, and,
frighteningly, at times, Jon Bon Jovi.

"Wake Up" struts along on heavy, robotic drumming and stabs of reverb guitar.
Martin replaces the fuzzy drone of Fire*Eater's organ with ambient twinkles
and piano hammers that would make RZA smile, if RZA does, in fact, smile. The
track recalls a "live," sample-less Eternals, and, like the Eternals, your
enjoyment hangs heavily on your ability to stomach the vocals. But it's
amazing how fresh a set of drums, a bass, a guitar, and a keyboard can sound
with some simple re-thinking, re-arrangement, and production touches.

The Bon Joviest singing runs throughout "We've Been Had." But Bon Jovi never
belted showtune-influenced rapture over echoing, sugar-tripped minimalism. If
the Dismemberment Plan lived in 1967, they might come up with something like
"The Crimps," which skitters and pops on drum rolls and sleighbells, echoing
bumblebee guitar, and spooky keys. Distant harmonies and rug-smothered drums
slowly emanate under "Summer Stage."

In the end, Martin, Barrick, and Maroon cook up another subtle, spacious sound
that chills out like a phantom. In many ways, the Walkmen perfectly embody a
Harlem loft-- high ceilings, echoing acoustics, raw, exposed walls, and some
arty beatnik who's probably from suburban New Jersey squatting right in the
middle.